


A Collection From Colours

by B00ksOverB4nt3r



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 21:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11299299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B00ksOverB4nt3r/pseuds/B00ksOverB4nt3r
Summary: Rose is just a girl in a snowy town where nothing truly ever captures her attention. Pulled this way and that by all her hidden desires and longings in the face of depression, she knows she has to somehow find love in order to continue living at all. There's just one problem- she falls for a girl.In this world, everybody has the eyes of the fallen stars, where their strongest colours show, and their weaknesses are covered in grey. With neon green eyes that cannot see blue, Rose has to fight her way out of vivid hallucinations in order to see truth. Enter Blake, a ballerina with misty eyes that immediately steals Rose's gaze. Trying not to fall in love is impossible, and for Blake, it's just as painful to let her down, even though it means she may be making the biggest mistake of Rose's life. (This is a fever dream script I am writing, where scenes are posted as they are written, which means it's not necessarily in order. TRIGGER WARNING: Rose's character has some heavy topics and harmful habits that may upset the reader. Reader Discretion is Advised.)





	1. Chapter 1

I swear I’d never seen a more encompassing shade of blue. I realize in the same moment that I see her, I see so much more:

The sky isn’t grey anymore; it's soft baby blue. My jeans aren’t shades of sullen grey, they’re blue. Water didn’t have that sparkling blue tint before, but now…

Her eyes aren’t just streaking water droplets, they are sapphires.

 

And me...how does she see me? Can she see more than grey in my hair now? Is there going to be more than just emptiness in fields of grass, more life in my jacket? And my eyes, are they as completing to her as hers are to mine?

My left wrist starts to burn up. I gasp and and pull back the sleeve of my green jacket and tear off the watch just in time to see a mask burn itself into my skin. Over the veins, a smiling theatre mask has marked itself permanently there, and then-

The tattoo keeps going.

A ribbon twirls around the mask and a word echtes onto it while it curls continually down my arm and forms a pair of ballet slippers where the tip of the toe is a pencil, and notebook lines are drawn with searing heat. Her bigger passion then. Poetry and dancing.

She is also staring at what is happening on my arm. The heat subsides after a moment and I wonder what will start to form on her skin, and where. A moment of panic and I almost want to cry- what if nothing forms? My life has been void of passions and hobbies I enjoyed. These last few years I hardly even wanted to live.

But then she raises her hand to her face and covers her eye, her face scrunching up in pain. ‘Oh God,’ I think. How bad have I fucked up her eye, why did anything have to form around her beautiful, lovely eyes? The hand comes away quickly, showing a small mark just below her right eye.

A single golden tear drop.

I’m so taken with that tattoo I didn't even notice that another one had formed over her exposed chest- a heart monitor line, about two inches long, bright red that fades out to black, and only one little spike at the very start.

But she isn’t smiling. She is angry, albeit  amazed at the event, but I have caused her pain for a beauty that she doesn't understand, that she doesn't want to understand. It's me. She can’t possibly understand.

I hate her now. The tear slips down her face burning her skin, showing the flesh from underneath bubbles of what used to be beautiful delicate skin. The heart line bounces up and down and then her heart explodes out of her chest. 

Boom.


	2. The Actual Intro

“Rose, we’re almost there. What do you want?” Natasha crossed the street in a flurried rush, her boots splashing in the slushy water on the sidewalk with me holding on to her coat hem so I wouldn't lag behind. I tended to space out often. And just like I did just now, spacing out meant some gory imagination of how meeting my significant other would be. A total mess.  
I took my time. I wasn't really in a rush to answer, since my daytime nightmares didn't really care to leave me able to think much less breathe after that small horror show. ‘Dumbass, just ask her for a coffee already.’ but then my thoughts took me back to being younger, when Natasha and I wondered what it would be like to finally see that last color of the world. She looked at it all with a smile, as if seeing grey and knowing it should be something else wasn't a negative thing. She liked saying it was room for expansion.  
As a child, you can only think that the world is okay with grey until you were told different. I wish I hadn't known something was missing. I don't care if I am missing something, why did I have to know there was something missing? At that age, I wouldn't even be able to find it for years to come, when I accidently run into someone at a coffee shop, or sit next to them on a bus- and the exchange would be so fleeting, I imagined. You wouldn't actually be meeting them for the first time, you’d completely pass them by. That scared me. How would I be able to tell any differences to the world if I didn't at least know which person had made them possible? I hear a bell jingle as we walk in the shop.  
“Just a black coffee,” I respond. Most of my world is grey anyway. At least my coffee won't change. She goes to stand in line as I let go of the door and grab us two empty seats next to the window wall. I choose the seat that perfectly views the showcase of sweet treats served by short tempered baristas. Pulling out my seat, I drape my green jacket over the chair and unravel my scarf. Its gotten really damp from the snowfall, I should go dry it off in the bathroom with the towels later. But that requires moving…  
Natasha comes back with the coffees, setting the warm liquids on the square surface. Hers is the normal purple she likes asking for. A variance of the weird purple that the bartender can't stop staring into when Natasha goes to order.  
“What’s wrong,” she holds the other end of the scarf up to inspect it. I might have made her think there's something seriously wrong with my scarf from the way she is looking from my expression and back to the scarf. My ‘oh god, I have to move?’ face is en point today.  
“It’s wet.”  
She just stares at me. “So?” she lets the scarf drop out of her hands and she seats herself next to me. “It’s called fucking snow. Shit is gonna get wet.” Her coat is wet too, but I guess she doesn’t mind just wearing the water like it wasn't frozen a second ago. I rub my hands together, then figure the coffee cup is warmer. I hear some Ed Sheeran song play overhead.  
“Can you grab me some towels from the loo?”  
She shakes her head and just hands me a few napkins. “You’re a child. You know that, right? I’m practically your mom.”  
“You’re the best mom of a lazy potato child ever.” She flicks me in the forehead. I take a sip of bitter, hot coffee. “Why is yours purple? It's always purple.”  
“So? I like purple.” She takes a deep sip. Her pupils dilate a little bit, and now her eyes are thin rims of dark violets fighting back blissful voids of black. “Your coffee is always black, but I never care about it.” I honestly don't care about hers either. I just wonder how she can see it if she can’t see red, since red and blue make purple. I don't even know how I see it.  
How much is actually grey?


	3. A Bloody Bad Hair Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A randomly written chapter. the idea behind the gore and the bird is supposed to symbolize how Rose is slowly coming out of her shell, that her fears will chase her endlessly unless she can let it go and WANT to live instead of only TRYING.

She handed the collections of do’s back to her hairdresser. Natasha has come here for over three years, but only because she trusts Madelyn with her oil spill of hair. Madelyn’s own hair is a work of something beautiful, but I have no idea how she managed to do it by herself which should mean there’s someone else to trust with her hair. It's a pastel green with grey streaks that I assume are supposed to be matching pastel blue highlights. Her bangs are swept tastefully into a curl and clipped to her not-too-short haired head. Pixie cut. I like the green, but I wouldn’t ever put it on my own head. Not that shade any way. I’d want something closer to my eye color. I mean, if I could stomach being gawked at for it.

Waiting in another chair next to her, I’m supposed to just be getting my dead ends cut by a hairdresser who isn't sporting anything sophisticated: A simple black bun on her head is what goes, I guess- and even this is a stretch from what I do with myself. More of a gesture of grooming I don't actually keep up with on my own, Natasha had to drag me here like an exasperated mother and demanded me to-

“Please, just do something with it! It's so boring just sitting on your shoulders.” Madelyn has finished trimming her hair already, and now is tousling it around with a comb  and hairspray for what she said was “a playful look.” Tash looks at me with her neck facing the mirror but her eyes boring in my direction.

“I don't want anything done with my hair though.”  My designated hairdresser arrives to ask what I want done. “A wash and a trim, please.” For one, it's cheap: since I’m paying, I can’t be throwing money at my head when I could be using it to pay for something ideal. Like dinner.

Tash sighs. 

I get lead to the back sinks and stools to get shampoo rubbed into my hair. The girl’s nails are fake and elongated but feel wonderful on my scalp. As seldom as I accompany Natasha here, I do love the feeling of a head massage.

I can hear Tash chatting up with Madelyn even with the towel wrapped around my head covering my ears after the wash. I get sent back to my seat while the girl, Tress, I believe the nameplate reads, walks into a back room. Tash goes silent as I sit down. “Are you mad at me?”

She shifts around, digging into her purse for a distraction. Cause I guess she  _ is _ mad at me. I blink and look closer at her purse, realizing that its pulsating as her hand moves around in it. What color was her bag when we walked in here? I could have sworn it wasn’t red when she pulled it up onto her lap getting into the chair…

Bird brain I am. No attention span whatsoever. “Tash?”

Huffing, she throws the purse by the straps onto the table where the hairdressing scissors, combs and knick-knacks are. I swear I can hear it squish. “Come on! You want something new, I know it! You just don't even realize it through your bitch-y moping attitude.”

The pulses change beats, reverberating like a headache. Something dark falls out of the bag, making a small  _ plop _ sound that Tash should be able to hear. Its right next to her feet. My bird brain starts humming with disgust. “No, really, I’m fine.” I swallow the lie. I want to be fine, but I think I’m going to be sick: It's a bird corpse, half rotten, but still moving on the floor. Crawling.

“Highlights, bangs, shirley-curled- I don’t care! Listen, I’ll even pay for it!”

Toward me.

I shut my eyes and press my fingers against them. A bead of water escapes the towel hat and slowly runs from my forehead to my eyebrow. I wipe it away and try to dry it on my towel, but my entire hand comes away wet and sticky. Peeking my eyes, it’s blood. “Please just stop,” I mumble to whatever sick spell is aimed at my eyes. The corpse is in my lap now. Its head has been severed, but then displaced so its beak is facing a different way than the rest of its dead body. Its eyes are gray dots sinking into the rot of its brain, and its beak is unhinged, hanging loosely. A foot is missing. It takes every bead of my water wet head to not jump up or swat it away.

“Rose, I get that you’re a tad over conservative, but someti-”

“Ok, fine, I’ll dye it! Just stop already!” The bird freezes in place. I blink, and the whole illusion is gone. I can see without a hue of red that Madelyn is nodding her head with a smile at me, like she’s proud. 

“If it’s a color change, I’m the one that handles it.” Madelyn starts, “It’ll take a lot of time, so you may want to wait over at Au Lait, or the bookstore across the street.” this last part she says to Natasha.

Tress walks in looking all hot and bothered. Her eyes glare daggers and her nose is bunched up, drawing lines around her whole wrinkled face. “I am perfectly capable of  _ handling _ hair dye, Madelyn. I’m elderly, not useless.” Nervously, I glance back to the room Tress disappeared into. Easily in hearing distance. I should’ve thought that it would be inconsiderate to ask someone else for more than a simple cut. Having heard only that I was dying it, and not that I was pretty much forced last minute into the decision made me feel bad. She was mad that I didn't think she was competent enough or able bodied. 

As Natasha makes arrangements to pay for her hair, I instantly regret agreeing to it. “Great then, I’ll be back in an hour and a half, I’ll pick you up at Au Lait after you've been polished like a gem, ok? I have an errand to run for my mom.” With that, she flips her fancy hair and walks out of the shop. Her heeled winter boots make loud clacking noises that fade out.

Bashfully, I ask Tress’s opinion on if I should put highlights in. Would Tash count that as dying it?

Madelyn   _ tsks _ at me. “No no, sweetie. Your friend picked out what she wanted and then paid in advance. Highlights ain’t what she paid for.”

I gaped at her. “Then what  _ did _ she pay for?”

Madelyn ignores me though. She pulls a sour-looking Tress back into the back room, leaving me back in my anxious state of terror.  Tress soon returns with a box that I can't see a brand name of or any color listed. Inside the box is a foil tube that she squeezes a paste out of and into a bowl. A colourless paste. She wanted my hair dyed  _ blonde _ ?

But she’s not done with the paste. Madelyn comes out with a white shampoo type bottle that is labeled “VOLUMIZER” and proceeds to pour a baby food jar’s worth of a lavender tinted water in the bowl with the paste. Tress mixes it with a stick tipped with a fanned out brush of plastic bristles. I note how much is in the bowl, and figure it's enough for my whole head, not highlights.

_ Shit. What did I just sign up for?   _


	4. Mesmerized

Just try describing a color without having anything else to compare it to. Without having seen other shades or tints or hues before.

Blue. A word on my tongue that makes me tremble, not because of the color itself, but because of what it means to see it.

What is going on in my head? I see her eyes and a fanning out spread of not-grey sky. The clouds seem a brighter, fuller white. The shock of the word being said tastes of surprise. It looks like heaven and feels like a miracle. These kind of roses don’t exist in nature, but I think I  just found one. Its deep with pollinated specks of hazelnut. It banishes my sadness that I’ve welled myself in and it melts into ice.

It feels like flying. It’s the calm of the world collected. It’s the curve of inked letters and words that say goodbye to make room for other hellos. It’s that Eiffel 65 song. It's the sound of a lake side memory and nostalgia. The feeling of the sky before it becomes a coal mine. 

 


	5. The Storm

I waited for years after she left to leave as well, and I went home with sickening bile crawling up my throat. Then I slammed all the doors behind me. Fell right in bed, and I haven't moved from this curled up fetal position since I got in. I feel like I'm falling apart. My shoulders are racking with sobs, and they threaten to melt right off my body. My eyes are burning, tears drowning my mind while it floats away from me. I can't control anything, I've been able to do nothing to help the fact that Blake hates me. I'm useless. I utter it under my breathe a thousand times. Completely useless. And pathetic.

And about to puke up my guts. The rib-racking tears upset my stomach and blind my itchy eyes as I stumble out of the room into the bathroom. Toilet seat is already up and thank God because I just barely make it. That full meal I had earlier? Gone. Any bit of hope for me and Blake? Gone.

My refusal to muck up my clean record? Going…

I wash away the puke: from my mouth, from a little smudge on the toilet, from a small strand of my hair that got caught with the first upheaval. I’m still sick inside, still embarrassed that I was rejected. But now I’m also very angry at myself, for thinking there was good to come from telling her. I swat at my head, rearing back and accidently smacking it against the wall, but then doing it again on purpose. The impact causes a monster of a headache. I do it a few more times before the dizzying sledgehammer-like pain from each pulse makes me collapse.

But releasing anger, no matter the headache, feels better than just crying. I deserve so much worse. Because her hate is my fault.

~

The use wasn't in trying to defy my fate, but to seek out from someone else. A girl? How could it be possible? I was sure I didn't care about girls that way. I wasn't- I'm not homo, even though if she were I might... No, what the hell am I thinking? I know I'm straight dammit! A little Christian winter town like this, and this kind of thing is so rare, practically unheard of.

So why did this happen to me? Why only now did I feel like we had a connection, just now, when I've known Blake for awhile? 

Oh God she's staring at me, waiting to say something. Her eyes, that face... She must be thinking the same as me. She has to be. My eyes feel as though they are swelling with the strain of processing everything that is newly painted.

"You okay? You look a little blue in the cheeks. Rose?"

"I... What?" She didn't connect? "I can see now!" My voice is raised, my throat tight and I feel a little burn from behind my eyes. "But you...you didn't, feel that? You, you can't.. Uh... You can't-"

"Can't what?" Annoyance rings clear. Blue seeps out of everything again, and oil painting that is too heavy for it's canvas, swirling back to shades of grey that I am sick of looking at. She doesn't know what I’m talking about that much is also clear. But she’s afraid I might be going crazy… But she couldn’t be serious? I could connect with her, but she didn't connect with me? This time I was so sure I could see her eyes, those bright eyes that were so much more than grey, that were so blue. Was that even possible? To lose my sight as soon as I have it again? Above everything else I just questioned, now this?

_ Oh God what to say to her now. _

"Blake I'm sorry, so sorry but I think I just-" her hand comes up to stop me, her head tilts. 

"Did you just," she starts, eyes bouncing all over the place eyeing the personal bubble I occupy with distaste. "Tie yourself to me?" 

Tie myself? "No! I mean, something happened, but it's not that!" She's upset at me now, it's clear I've upset her, it's all my fault. She gets up to leave. I pull my head into my hands, hiding the trailing tears. I've ruined this.


	6. The First Sighting

A swath of tight blonde buns spin around to music I can't hear. I’ve wandered from Natasha’s side at the food booths trailing the edges of the park where several carnival tents and freak show stages had been hastily set up for their monthly annual show. Now I am staring into a window wall of a building. Off to the side of the main entrance, a sidewalk banked by gravel and snow leads to zig zagging sidewalks off the side to specific studios. Back door exits. The tinted windows glinted, attracting me from my mindless walk. Visible from the parking lot, I could see small bits of movement behind the glass. I peeked into the first studio. 

Inside is a group of dancers twirling and spinning and performing little ballet hops that I don't know the proper term for. Two girls are stretching out on the floor, talking to each other vividly. Some ten or twelve other girls are spread across the room, warming up or winding down for the day. Most are dressed in leggings and tank tops or camisoles, while only one girl is dressed in white tights, a blue leotard, and tie around skirt. A breeze catches at my bare fingertips just as the tutu skirt thing is spinning around along with the girl it belongs to. I tuck my fingers into my scarf, even though it's wet from the day’s earlier snow. I breathe onto my hands for better warmth, watching with some small bit of fascination.

My phone lets out a series of small buzzes and beeps. Reluctantly, I reach one hand into my jacket's pocket to retrieve my flip phone. Four alerts have popped up. A few are texts from Natasha asking where I’ve gone, her saying that's she’s scared I’ll be getting caught in a blizzard, and to please call her before she calls the police. Another is a severe storm alert warning me that I should stay indoors. I dial Natasha up while looking back up at the dancers. The phone rings once before she picks up. “Rose?

“Yea, hey, Tash. I’m sorry I left, I just kind of got bored, and I-” she scoffs loudly on the other end. Inside, less and less movement caught my eye. I guess people were leaving the studio, mostly through the main entrance.

“You got bored? We were literally at a carnival, and you got bored? What the heck?” Anger hangs on the ends of her words. I feel bad that I walked off without warning, but I honestly hadn’t cared if I walked into traffic; I just couldn’t focus on anything Natasha said. It was like snow melting: before I could get a chance to study what she was actually saying, I just felt the words passing right over my head. I kick the wet gravel around my feet, sending little rocks flying into the parking lot spaces. “Know what, nevermind. Just get over here, we have to take the bus back home before the storm rolls in.”

“You still at the food booths?  I’ll be there in a bit.” I could hear her start to tell me to hurry and something else about the bus as I shut the phone, ending the call. I looked back up into the window as I stuffed the phone in my pocket. I had raised my head to look at the dancers looking for the one. I wanted to see the one in the blue leotard again before I left, with the graceful twirling of her skirt. But she wasn’t among the dancers left. No one was dancing anymore, and the few girls left grabbed an ipod from a stand in the far corner and stuffed it into a duffel bag where they had kept a coat. They all left giggling and smiling at each other.

I touched the glass wondering what it would be like to twirl around with half as much grace and poise. 

_ Yes, be pretty like a strutting peacock, you dumb little twat. _

Despite the initial fear of looking silly, I stepped away from the window deciding to give it a try anyway. How hard could it be? I set my feet the way that seemed proper compared to the dancers. My arms went near to my right hips so I could almost push my momentum to my feet using them.

I pushed off just as a voice sounded near me, making me trip over myself. I didn’t quite fall, but still had made me embarrassed enough to turn my fair skin red. I had gotten caught making a fool of myself after all. Righting myself, I felt all the courage of a possum acknowledging the person who made me near-fall. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.” It's the girl, the only one in the leotard. She has her duffel bag swung up on her shoulder and a coat on for the cold, but it isn't zipped up, showing her skirt and tights. Her legs must be freezing in those and nothing else. Even if she is wearing cozy looking Ugg boots, the wind has picked up a lot.  “I was asking if you were late? I mean practice just ended for the day due to the storm, but-”

I’m quick to interrupt her. “I’m not...I’m sorry I was just watching you guys, doing, um, just watching you twirling.” I stutter terribly. I want to leave right away to hide under my bed covers where it's warm and I can be alone. I’ve already embarrassed myself enough without my sudden sloppy speech. “I’m not a dancer. I was just walking by.” The girl looks a little confused as she looks at me wringing my hands. I feel like I’m in trouble, that I’ve done something  wrong, like some form of invading privacy. I just know I have to leave before I start crying like a child. My feet start moving before I can stutter out another apology, walking back around the sidewalk and retracing my path back to the park. If the blonde ballet girl says anything else it's drowned in the rising howl of the wind and my fear of getting caught in the storm while Natasha worries herself sick. Being nervous makes the walk seem so much longer even though it’s only couple of streets and crosswalks away from the park where I left Natasha.

She’s there next to a bus stopped by a bench, looking worried as the wind plays with her balance, messing with her footing. The wind has gotten stronger and I feel more anxious horror crawl into my mind; I can picture the mud from beyond the sidewalk swallowing my feet whole while the blizzardous winds lift Tash off the ground like she weighs nothing, just a leaf strewn and torn in every which direction, ripping her in half and her blood painting the wind.

I scream her name as if it's actually about to happen, like calling out to her will tether her to the mud like me. Instead of planting my feet I rush into her arms and shield my face from the frigid whip of arctic blasts howling around us. We need to get home now. It's apparent the bus has been waiting for me to take off, and holding on to Natasha I climb in, glad to feel some warmth at long last. She pulls out the two passes from earlier. We have to sit separately from each, the bus is so crowded.


	7. Morning Corpse

I’m trying to dream again, but per the usual, it’s not working out. Its soundless, soulless black before my shut eyelids. If I’m lucky, I can still try to just sleep before I have to wake up.

But my alarm clock has other ideas. I shut out the noise, my tired body wrapping around in the blanket for retreat. Something starts dripping onto the blanket as it covers my head. I hear the small splash above the background blare of the beeping alarm.

_ Oh no. No, no, not again... _

I start praying silently against the possibility. But peeking over the covers just confirms my suspicion. More blood. I don’t want to see what it’s dripping from; there's sure to be a corpse of some type, human or otherwise. Always covered in grey rot, always crawling toward me. Tired resignation leads me to look from the stained covers up to the ceiling. My prediction doesn’t disappoint: it’s still a corpse. Only the upper half of a corpse but still a dead, bedraggled, skeleton. It’s still me.

It usually is me if it’s a human corpse. I can always tell because it’s always wearing the clothes I had on the day before. The only days I’m not sure who it is are the days that it wears rings on its bony hands. I don’t wear jewelry. Today the rings are absent from its outstretched hand as it hangs from the ceiling. Blood from absent flesh drips down the length of bones. I suck in a breath as the body lowers itself, hands reaching for my neck to strangle me. The skin breaks out in cold goosebumps despite the blanket. I can’t let it get any closer before its fingers reach- 

My neck is enclosed in its grasp. The ribcage is pressing into mine, it's impossibly heavy weight on my lungs. I can’t breathe anymore. Its full body is laid over mine, and growing bigger, heavier as the air in my mouth becomes too warm.


	8. Brown Eyed Boy

The coffee burned going down my throat. I liked the heated pain, and knowing we were going back into the cold snow made me want to have a warm, coffee-filled tummy. My hands no longer felt so numb, my knuckles and joints feeling much better with the coffee cup in them. But already it was near empty, and I was still thirsty. I tried distracting myself with the design of the cup: it was red paper with little white squares, starting small at the rim and growing larger until the bottom. Amid the center in a randomly chosen font was the name of the cafe. Au Lait.  
Natasha swirled her cup and took off the lid to add sugar. I noticed that she spilled some sugar outside the cup, making eyes for the barista behind the counter. “Are you and Jeremy going out yet?”  
Her eyes moved back to me, not moving her head from its tilted position, smushing her lips together. “Nah. I’m still waiting to see if he can say more than ‘have a nice day’ and ‘enjoy your coffee’ to me. I gotta say though, he’s... eye candy.” She poured another Splenda packet of sugar in her cup. She put the lid back on and held the cup to her lips without drinking. Here and there Natasha would tilt the cup forward, but otherwise it looked like she was too distracted to be bothered with her drink. I took smaller sips of mine to make it last. With Natasha on a small allowance from her parents and one of her aunts, I wasn't going to make her pay for a refill especially when I did next to nothing to pay her back. I felt that her always paying for me was a gradually building nuisance, and maybe one day she’ll quit being so nice to me. Especially if she ever got around to dating Jeremy, her money could definitely be used better on him.  
“Do you like him? He seems to like you, you could slide him your number on a napkin. Or ask to buy him dinner sometime.”  
She laughed delicately, almost sadly, but I knew it was more of a show of sarcastic drama. “And risk being rejected directly? Banish the thought! You will ask him for me.”  
“Hmm, what was that? It’s almost like you think I’m a social creature.”  
“Yeah, well. You’d have to do the napkin thing. I...I just can’t.”  
“You’ve done braver stuff. Remember when you rescued a kitten in a tree? You climbed to the top branch to save it.”  
“That doesn’t count! That, I had to do! Jeremy, well. He’ll get by without me. Plus his eyes are brown.”  
“So?”


End file.
